The Guilty Blood
by literary deviant
Summary: "Guilt is powerful," Sirius said. "It has teeth and claws, and once it sinks them into you, it doesn't let go. You'll spend the rest of your life wondering what you could have done differently. I know guilt, Harry, and you don't want to do this to yourself." Harry has a tendency to blame himself for things that aren't his fault. Luckily, Sirius is there to set him straight.


**AN:** I started this about four years ago. Going through the dozens of unfinished stories on my old laptop, this is one of the ones I decided was worth salvaging. So if my writing style seems to change a bit halfway through, that's because there was four years between starting this and finishing it.

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**The Guilty Blood**

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"_Kill the spare!" hissed the voice from the bundle, chilling, and terrifying, and faintly familiar in the worst sort of way._

"_Avada Kedavra!" the other yelled out, voice raspy and urgent. _

_His head felt as though it was being split open, his scar was burning like it was being branded by a white-hot poker, and there was no time to react, no time to even shout out, as there was a burst of bright green light, and then Cedric was flying through the air, then lay sprawled on the ground, chest unmoving, eyes unseeing. And the stout man with the bundle of robes – Wormtail – was coming closer –_

And Harry Potter woke up with a scream on his lips, sweat on his brow, green light imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, and he took deep gulps of air as he tried to quell his panic, fighting the urge to be sick. His heart beat loudly in his chest, his heart rate much too fast, and he twisted his shaking hands into the sheets of his cot, as he tried to even his breathing back to normal.

Shivers violently wracked his body, and he made an effort to push himself halfway up into a sitting position, so that he was leaning up against the wall that the infirmary bed he lay in was pushed up against. He raised his arms and ran his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair, pressing the palm of his hands to his lightning-shaped scar. It was no longer burning, but he could remember the pain from the dream—from the memory of what happened only hours ago—so well, that it felt as though his head was still searing with pain, and most likely would never stop.

The curtains had been drawn around his hospital cot, so that he would be concealed from view to any other late night visitors to the hospital wing. Normally he would be grateful, but at the moment Harry couldn't bring himself to care. He assumed that it was still night, judging by how no light could be seen seeping in from the windows. In the edge of his vision he caught a flash of something red, and turned so he could better make out the slumbering form of Mrs. Weasley, who was asleep at his bedside. His heart ached slightly at the thought of how much she cared.

Shifting his position slightly, Harry became aware of a heavy weight resting on his legs that he had previously not noticed. A large, bear-like black dog, curled up near the end of the bed, watching him with dark, concerned eyes that almost seemed human.

Sirius.

He must have seen Harry awaken from his nightmare. That's why he was being looked at like that. Worried. Sad. Anxious. He wondered how long his godfather had been there, if he'd been there all night.

Harry made an effort to push himself off the bed railing so he was sitting up without support, but stopped when it proved to be too much strain on his weary body. "Siri—Snuffles?" Harry corrected in a quiet voice, casting a cautious glance at the passed out Mrs. Weasley.

Sirius—or rather, Snuffles—shuffled closer with his paws in front of him, careful not to tread on any of his godson's limbs. He let out a low whine, nuzzling Harry's side slightly with his nose. Expressive eyes, more human than animal, peered up at him in the dark of the room, conveying the question, _Are you alright?_

Harry didn't say anything, just reached his hand out for Snuffles to sniff. The dog-that-wasn't-a-dog pushed his snout against Harry's palm, and the boy smiled wanly, retracting his hand and bringing it up to scratch lightly behind the dog's ears.

Snuffles leaned into his gesture, making a contented noise. Harry said quietly, "You shouldn't be here." When the dog cocked his head to the side, Harry clarified, "The school's overflowing with staff and Ministry members. It's too risky, even if they don't know about Snuffles. Someone could figure you out."

Snuffles made a gesture that Harry guessed was the dog equivalent of a shrug. Harry rolled his eyes at the disregard for his safety.

"You're going to get yourself killed one day," he told him. It was meant as a joke, but his smile faded as he considered the real possibility of the statement, and remembered all he had been through just a few short hours ago. It seemed like an eternity.

Snuffles just looked at him, silent. If dogs had eyebrows, Harry imagined they would be drawn together. Then he leapt off the bed onto the floor on all fours, and Harry stopped himself from calling out to ask where he was going, unwilling to admit to the fear of Sirius leaving him here by himself, with no one but his thoughts for company.

But he needn't have bothered. Sirius didn't leave; the moment he touched the floor his body transformed, a shifting silhouette in the darkness, and Snuffles became Sirius. Dark hair, gaunt, pale face, haunted eyes, he was a sorry sight, and even a bit scary in the zero-light room. And now he looked down at Harry with worry clearly gouged into his face, his complexion a bloodless white that shone eerily in the dim room.

Harry's eyes went wide, barely restraining himself from letting out a yell of surprise. "Sirius!" he hissed. "Are you _stupid_? Change back!"

Sirius rolled his eyes, reaching to push his hair away from his face. "Relax, kiddo. This place is empty except for us two."

Harry gave a significant look toward the sleeping Mrs. Weasley, but Sirius just waved his hand, unconcerned.

"Aw, she's sleeping like a rock, she won't hear us."

Harry, though, wasn't deterred. "She could still wake up! She'll catch you!"

"Then let her catch me." Though the way he glanced warily at Mrs. Weasley showed he wasn't as unconcerned as he made himself out to be. Sirius really _didn't_ want to be caught. Nor did he have any plans to be.

"_Sirius_—" Harry tried again to protest.

The man crouched down by the cot his godson lay in, pushing Harry down by the shoulder as he tried to sit up amidst all his protesting. "Don't try and sit up," he advised. "It's not worth the strain you're exerting on your body, especially when you're so weak."

Harry glared at Sirius, wanting to tell him he wasn't _weak_, he was just tired from the lingering effects of the sleeping draft Madam Pomfrey had given him. But even he couldn't deny he seemed to be running low on strength; he felt as though he'd just won a marathon, and the lingering effects of Voldemort's Cruciatius Curse made him sore all over. Even the thought of it made his muscles clench in remembered agony. He had never felt anything so painful, and he had done some pretty painful things during his four years attending the school.

Being bitten by a basilisk being one of them. Falling hundreds of feet from his broom being another.

Harry shifted his position on the cot. "You shouldn't be here," he repeated, voice softer and with less conviction this time.

"Why?" Sirius asked. "Do you not want me here?"

"No!" Harry exclaimed immediately, in a whisper that was a bit too loud. He was shoved back again when he tried to sit up. "That's not—that isn't what I meant. I just… I don't want you caught because of me."

_I don't want to be left alone again._

Harry didn't let the words escape his lips, unwilling to appear so vulnerable. But Sirius seemed to understand anyway, because his expression softened. With a cautious look at Mrs. Weasley, Sirius grabbed the second chair that was next to her, carefully maneuvering it closer to the bed.

The floor squeaked slightly as the legs of the chair scraped it. Harry and Sirius both winced, but Mrs. Weasley didn't stir. Sirius lowered himself into the chair.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

Harry's muscles tensed. "Talk about what?" he asked, playing dumb.

Sirius gave him a flat look. "_Harry_."

Harry's jaw clenched. He stared down at the edge of the sheet he held at his hands, his chest tight. He struggled not to remember Cedric's dead eyes, how cold his body had felt when Harry had grabbed him and summoned the Portkey.

"I don't know what you want from me," he said. "I already explained everything. You were there, you heard me."

"I _heard_ you tell Dumbledore what happened," Sirius responded. "But you talked like you were delivering a report. Not once did you mention how you were feeling."

Harry released a shaky breath. The tight feeling in his chest increased, making it hard to breathe. "I don't—I don't want to talk about it…"

His hands blurred in front of him, and Harry felt tears press against the back off his eyes. He felt the phantom pain of the Cruciatius wrack his body, remembered the horror as Voldemort manipulated his spine into a bow. Cedric standing next to him, concern on his face as he saw Harry crumple from the pain in his scar,

An inhuman voice piercing the air. _Kill the spare—_

"Whoa, hey, hey!" There were hands on his shoulders, solid and grounding. "It's okay, you're fine, Harry, just breathe."

It was only then that Harry noticed how quick his breathing was becoming. His godfather hovered in front of him, his face alarmed and slightly panicked. Harry focused on the man's hands on his shoulders, and slowly, he calmed down. Memories stopped bombarding him, and his breathing levelled out.

Sirius's shoulders slumped, the panic in his eyes abating. Slowly, he dropped his hands from Harry's shoulders.

"Thank Merlin," he breathed, sounding intensely relieved. "I don't know how to deal with panic attacks. My brother used to get them, and every time I tried to help him I just made it a thousand times worse—"

"Panic attack?" Harry questioned, his voice slightly shaky. "Was that what that was?"

"Not full-blown, but you were definitely working yourself up to one." Sirius leaned back in his chair, glancing behind him at the slumbering Mrs. Weasley. "Surprised she slept through that, honestly. You okay now?"

Harry took a few moments to breathe properly. The feeling of not being able to breathe had shaken him more than he was willing to admit; whatever that had been, he never wanted it to happen again.

"I'm okay," he said quietly. "Sorry."

Sirius shook his head. "Don't be sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you. You don't have to talk about it with me if you don't want to."

Harry was quiet for a long moment, not speaking. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it. But Cedric's dead eyes kept eating away at him; they kept staring at him in his memory, accusing him. _Why?_ they kept asking. _Why, why, why?_

"I told him we'd grab it together," Harry said, and it felt like a confession. His shoulders hunched under the weight of the words.

Sirius frowned. "What?"

"Cedric," Harry clarified. The name scraped against the back of his throat like a razor blade. "I told him to take the Triwizard Cup with me."

He looked down, not wanting to see the judgement on his godfather's face. His hands clenched, nails biting into his skin. Sirius didn't respond, and Harry swallowed.

"It's my fault," he said, the words rushing out of him. "It's my fault he's dead. If I hadn't told him to take the Cup with me, then he wouldn't even have been there—"

"Whoa," Sirius said sharply. "Whoa, hey. Hold on."

Harry looked up at him. His godfather's face was serious (no pun intended), and his grey eyes seemed to pierce him sharply.

"What happened to that kid was _not_ your fault," he said firmly. "It was that damn rat that killed him, not you."

"But I told him to take the Cup!" Harry protested. For some reason, Sirius's insistence that he was innocent was more hurtful than if his godfather had blamed him. He didn't want his guilt to be excused, he wanted Sirius to agree with him. "He was going to let me take it, but I insisted it would be both of us. If I hadn't done that, he wouldn't have been killed!"

"You didn't know the Cup was a Portkey, Harry—"

"That doesn't matter! He's still dead!"

Frustration caused his voice to raise slightly, and his eyes darted quickly to Mrs. Weasley to be sure he hadn't disturbed her. They then returned to Sirius, unyielding in their belief.

_This is my fault. Cedric died because of me. I won't let Sirius tell me he didn't._

Sirius was silent for a while, clearly thinking. It didn't matter though, because Harry wasn't going to let anything he said convince him. When he finally spoke, a few minutes had passed.

"Do you blame me for what happened to your parents?"

Harry straightened, face reflecting his shock at the question. "What? No! Of course not!"

He felt offended that Sirius would even think him capable of that. Of _course_ he didn't blame his godfather. Sirius had loved his parents; their deaths had broken him. And then he had spent thirteen years imprisoned for their deaths, suffering and reliving his worst memories, when all he'd ever done was try to protect them. Try to protect _Harry_.

"I could never blame you for that," he said. "I did before, but that was before I knew the truth. It wasn't you who betrayed them, it was Wormtail."

A flash of anger went through his godfather's eyes at the name, but it was gone as quick as it appeared.

"I'm the one who made him Secret Keeper," he said. "If I hadn't made that decision, then they would still be alive right now. You could have had the life you deserve."

Harry shook his head. "You don't know that for sure. And you didn't know that that would happen—"

Sirius gave him a pointed look, and the realization hit him. Harry's jaw clenched as it sank in, and he cursed internally, because he really should have seen this coming. But he hadn't, because he was an idiot.

Harry glared at his godfather. "That's not the same thing," he said.

Sirius raised an elegant eyebrow. "Really? How so?"

The teenager's jaw clenched as he struggled to grasp a reason, failing to come up with anything. "Because—because it just isn't, okay?"

"_`Because it isn't'_? That's your argument?"

Harry glared at him. "I'm tired," he defended. "It's my fault Cedric is dead. Stop trying to confuse me with logic. I won't listen to you."

Sirius sighed. "Merlin and Morgana," he said. "You're as stubborn as Lily."

Harry might have felt warmth at the comment, if his memory of seeing his mother's ghost emerging from Voldemort's wand hadn't still been so raw. His heart constricted.

Sirius scooted forward, so he was sitting on the edge of his seat. He took Harry's hands in his own. Reluctantly, Harry let them remain there.

"Harry, listen to me," he said. And something about the tone of his voice made Harry actually listen to him. "I spent years blaming myself for James and Lily's deaths. Over a decade in Azkaban, reliving the memory of walking into their house and finding their bodies on the floor. Finding you crying in that crib. It killed me—ripped me apart from the inside. It still does. That hasn't changed, even without the dementors."

Harry looked at him. At his eyes that had always been haunted, that Harry had only ever seen without that broken look in them in old photographs. And against his will, he found himself listening. _Believing_.

"Guilt is powerful," Sirius continued. "It has teeth and claws, and once it sinks them into you, it doesn't let go. You'll spend the rest of your life wondering what you could have done differently. I know guilt, Harry, and trust me, you don't want to do that to yourself."

Harry pressed his lips together tightly, his eyes burning. They resonated deeply within him, and he didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to feel. His mind warred against his heart, and his heart couldn't let go of the memory of his and Cedric grabbing the Triwizard Cup at the same moment. Of his voice, telling Cedric they would grab it together.

"Maybe you're right," he admitted. "Maybe it isn't my fault. But that doesn't stop me from feeling like it is."

Sirius's face softened. It wasn't pity on his face, the way there had been on so many others. On his face, there was understanding.

"I know, kid," he said. "Believe me, I know."

Harry was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion. He felt a sudden urge to cry, and it took all his will to hold the tears back. Sirius seemed to see something in his expression, because he leaned forward and brought Harry into a hug.

Harry was both too surprised and too tired to hug back. In the year Harry had known him, Sirius was usually only affectionate like this when he was in dog form. As a human, he rarely initiated any sort of touch.

_I must really look pathetic,_ he thought.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said. "This shouldn't have been your life."

The guilt in his voice caused Harry to frown. "Not your fault," he reminded him.

"Not yours either."

Sirius let his arms drop, pulling back. "Go to sleep," he said. "I'll stay with you as Snuffles."

Harry nodded, too exhausted to protest. He laid back down with his head on the pillow, already feeling himself drifting. Sirius's form became blurred.

"Hey, Sirius?" he asked. "Does it ever go away?"

There was a brief pause at the question, and Harry's eyes fell closed. He felt a weight settle briefly on his head, and Sirius's answer reached his ears just before sleep claimed him.

"I don't know. I'll tell you if it ever does."

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_Thank you for reading! Please review :)_


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